


make your own warmth

by the_ragnarok



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Communication, M/M, Sharing a Bed, THERE WAS ONLY ONE BED, sharing body heat (discussed)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-18
Updated: 2019-10-18
Packaged: 2020-12-21 12:00:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,234
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21074552
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_ragnarok/pseuds/the_ragnarok
Summary: The thought of Harold fills John with fondness. He turns his head. Harold's snoring very slightly. He's holding on to the blanket. His hair is more of a bird's nest than usual.Oh, John thinks, realization dawning.Yes, him.





	make your own warmth

"Really?" Harold says, somewhere between exasperated and pained, when he sees the one double bed occupying the room.

"I'll sleep in the tub," John suggests.

Harold rolls his eyes. "Yes, I'm sure my reputation would be terribly hurt if you slept on the same mattress as me. There's enough room to share."

To John's critical eye, there really isn't. But he's tired, and more importantly, Harold said, "I'm not getting into bed until you are," so John doesn't have much of a choice.

Harold vanishes into the bathroom to change. John takes off everything except his underwear, and flashes a sly grin at Harold when he comes back. "Still want to share a bed?"

Harold, with a mulish set to his mouth, says, "I would prefer that, yes." He gives John a once-over, the kind that would raise John's hackles if it weren't so obviously nonsexual and if it weren't Harold.

John still murmurs, as Harold plumps the pillows to suit himself, "I had no idea you could be so friendly, Finch."

"Mr. Reese, do kindly go to sleep."

John's not expecting that to happen any time soon. It's been a long time since there's been another body in his bed.

But it's Harold, so John's muscles loosen and his eyes draw shut within minutes.

* * *

The room is still dark when John's eyes blink open. He's lying on his back, a short but respectable distance away from Harold and his mountain of pillows.

The thought of Harold fills John with fondness. He turns his head. Harold's snoring very slightly. He's holding on to the blanket. His hair is more of a bird's nest than usual.

_Oh_, John thinks, realization dawning. _Yes, him._

There's not much he can do about this revelation in the middle of the night. In all honesty, there's not much he wants to do. It's enough to let himself feel it -- to feel, period. John stares at the ceiling and marvels at the knot unravelling in his stomach. Just having Harold near makes everything slot together neatly.

He must make a sound, because Harold murmurs, "John?" plainly less than half awake.

"It's nothing. Go back to sleep."

'You, too." Harold starts snoring again almost as soon as he's finished speaking.

John nods off, too, eventually. After some time spent watching Harold's hands, and thinking about holding them, half amazed that he wants that. It feels good to want.

* * *

There are times, usually when John has to get by on less than two hours of sleep a night on average, where dreams and reality blur together. Despite having slept fairly well the previous night, John is having that feeling right now.

Harold is just sitting there, smearing cream cheese on his bagel. It's only in John's scrambled brain that it seems like Harold ought to have a halo, _something_ to explain why John wants to come close and bask.

Harold frowns and looks up from his breakfast. "Mr. Reese? Is everything alright?"

John bares his teeth. "Peachy." He spends the rest of the morning tending to his weapons, attempting to ignore Harold's looks of distaste, to ignore the pull Harold exerts on him without even trying.

* * *

This new feeling is fragile. The man into which Kara tried to make John would have crushed it in its nascence.

The man Harold wants him to be... John doesn't know.

The familiar part of it is the sense that reality is paper-thin, and will tear if John so much as looks at it too hard. Usually, though, what lurks beneath the surface are horrors beyond imagining.

What John is considering now is also beyond imagining, but in a completely different direction. John gets glimpses of it: the weight of Harold's hand on his shoulder, sitting across from Harold at a restaurant and knowing he'll be going home with Harold today, slipping into Harold's bed.

That, John can just about imagine, aided by the memory of last night. It still seems unreal, the product of missing too many hours of sleep. Impossible.

Harold has a habit of making the impossible happen, though.

* * *

"This is ridiculous," Harold says, stabbing the buttons of the elevator. They are both dripping wet from the sudden storm they were caught in, and once again the hotel did not have any vacancies except for a room with a single king-sized bed.

The elevator opens with a soft ding. John trails after Harold. The hotel is serviceable but cheap, far from Harold's usual preference, but as Harold said, "Needs must," with a little jerk of his chin.

John only realizes he's holding his breath when Harold opens the door to the room to reveal two beds, and John makes a choked noise like he'd been punched in the stomach.

"Oh, I see it's a double after all," Harold says, sounding so pleased that it feels like another punch to the gut. "That should -- Mr. Reese?"

Harold is soaked through, his hair plastered to his head, his jacket dripping water. He looks at John with large, concerned eyes, and John blurts out, "You shouldn't sleep alone."

Harold blinks. "Excuse me?"

"You're cold," John says. "You could catch a chill."

"One, that is not how illness works. Two, if hypothermia were a concern, I could take a hot shower." Harold frowns at John. "Is this a joke?"

John has no answer except for the earnest wish for the carpeted floor to open up and swallow him.

Harold's expression softens. "In the unlikely event," he says, voice also soft, "that you _want_ to share my bed, I'm afraid that you'll have to use your words like a grown man." Then he just -- stands there, expectant, as though he hadn't thrown John a curve ball fast enough to achieve escape velocity.

John closes his eyes. He's faced down enemy fire. He shouldn't be afraid to creak out a tiny little, "Yes." Still, afraid or not, he does it. That's bravery, isn't it?

"What are you saying yes to?" Harold's voice is still so fucking soft. "John, whatever it is you want, you have to ask for it. I won't make guesses or assumptions."

"Can I," John swallows. "May I sleep in your bed?" It's an effort not to qualify it, to say, _I'll take the floor if you want me to_, even though the other bed is right there, waiting.

"Yes," Harold says. He doesn't say anything else. He disappears into the bathroom and comes out in a fluffy terry robe, his sodden clothes hung to dry above the bath. John follows suit, stunned and silent. Harold is in bed when John comes out.

Harold holds up the blanket in a hand that quivers very slightly. John climbs under it before Harold can change his mind. The bed isn't very large, but John can fold up so that he doesn't intrude on Harold's space.

"Mr. Reese," Harold says, then clears his throat. "John. I would like to hold your hand; would you like that?"

Heart pounding too much to answer, John reaches to lace his fingers with Harold. He wants to kiss Harold's hand, his fingers and his knuckles, but he doesn't dare. 

"I won't ask more of you tonight," Harold says. "But you are welcome to ask. Tonight, or later."

"Got it," John says, throat dry. He knows he won't fall asleep tonight, and he continues knowing that until he loses consciousness about five minutes in.


End file.
